


This is Why You Don't Play Monopoly With Eight People

by A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac



Category: Team Fortress 2, Team Fortress Classic
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 08:50:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9811985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac/pseuds/A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac
Summary: A bad dust storm comes to Great-Depression-Era Teufort. The Classic Mercenaries wait it out while playing a newfangled board game:Monopoly.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello. Everybody. New fic. Weird fic. Not even a TF2 fic, technically speaking. 
> 
> I love the Classics and wanted to do a fic about them in their heyday, all while staying true to TFC and the 1930's setting. This is my attempt. 
> 
> For those who don't know a lot about TFC, we have canon names for 6 of the mercs. The names Marcus (for Heavy) and Katsu (for Medic) come from tiny-freakin-head's _Heavy Smoke. _The Serb is technically my OC. Actually, I guess all of these guys could count as OCs since we know so little about the Classics.__  
>   
>  _As a cheat sheet, here's everybody's names and nationalities._  
>   
>  Scout- Gregorio – Italian  
> Soldier – Ross—British  
> Pyro—Bea—American (Chicago)  
> Demoman – Gregor – German  
> Engineer – Fred – American (Texas)  
> Heavy – Marcus – Swedish  
> Medic – Katsu – Japanese  
> Sniper – Virgil—American (Montana)  
> Spy – “the Serb” – Serbian  
> May be a couple weeks before this updates. Sorrreeeee.  
>    
> Anyway, hope you enjoy!  
> 

_Teufort, New Mexico  
17 August, 1936 ___

Virgil perched in the highest point on the map, at the top of the grain elevator’s chute. Behind him, the sun reflected off metal and dark blue paint. Even without the reflections, it was probably close to a hundred degrees up here. His sweat had gone from individual droplets to one mass of sticky, seeping dampness. The ghillie suit only made things worse. Burlap was not exactly a wicking material. He’d considered just ditching the suit, but if he removed, it wouldn’t Respawn with him. Then he’d have to climb up after battle to retrieve it, and that just sounded like too much effort. This point was all but unreachable. 

Even if it was hot, unreachable did make for a nice, peaceful nest. No voices grating on his ears. None of those dying screams (did his teammates even realize how irritating they were?) Even the Announcer was soft and distant. Perfect, if only he’d been able to get his shot in. 

Scoping his rifle, he looked towards the opposite battlement. A sentry’s nest had made mincemeat of every BLU who crossed the bridge. The RED engineer was never far from the nest, but he was good, too good, at keeping his head down. Idiot hillbilly trash had no business being a better fighter than his dumb face suggested. Sure, Virgil had managed to shoot the engineer in the leg. It halved the RED’s speed, but it didn’t really help anything. Engineers didn’t need to run. Virgil set the rifle in his lap. 

Then, faintly, something detonated. An incendiary cannon; Virgil knew from the sound. It wasn’t as loud as a rocket launcher. It wasn’t as sharp as a grenade or a pipe bomb. 

He scoped and shot the rocket-jumping Pyro* mid-flight. Annoying little slut. The body landed on the ground like a tossed rag doll. He couldn’t hear her bones break, but he imagined it anyway. A napalm grenade fell from the pyro’s bandolier and skittered across the ground. Bump, bump, roll. It was useless with no one to pull the pin. 

Virgil chuckled, a low vibration in his stomach. The pyro was vanishing now; he returned to the engineer. Still no chance of a decent shot. Virgil stuck a salty thumbnail into his mouth and bit down. The nail split; he spat it out. Looked at his thumb. The quick was bleeding slightly. 

Then the air changed. It was something subtle; he couldn’t tamp down the exact nature out it. Still, something prompted his to look over his shoulder. A hazy cloud had appeared on the horizon. It was mostly reddish-brown, but black at the core. Virgil wore and kicked his legs over the edge of the grain chute. Screw the battle. There was no point in fighting now.  
***  
Katsu was trying to run before he had fully managed to Respawn. He was halfway to his feet before the vertigo won and he fell over sideways. With a pop, he finished materializing. 

“Blimey, Doc. Best take it easier than that. Not like we’ve got a fire to get to.”

Katsu pushed himself to his knees. Ross offered a hand and pulled the doctor to his feet. It took the strength on one arm, and none of his back. Katsu was only five-foot-two and only weighed about a hundred and ten pounds. After a big meal. While soaking wet. 

“That nest!” said Katsu. “I was so close – I nearly--” He fumbled for his super nailgun, thoughts in English and Japanese crisscrossing in his brain. “Come with me.” He grabbed a handful of the soldier’s uniform and stood on his tiptoes. “We’ll get rid of it once and for all.”

“Doc,” said Ross. “I know I’m not meant to be short with you, but perhaps you ought to catch your breath first.”  
Kastu paused. Ross was right, really. He pulled his mask down around his neck and inhaled. The unfiltered air seemed thick and gritty, but it was so much easier to fill his lungs. “No, you’re right. Thank you.”

Then there was a crack and a puff of ozone. The incandescent lights flickered and another body began to appear. Another person to aid in the destruction of the nest. Katsu hoped it would be the Serb, or, failing that, Gregorio. But no, it was Gregor. The boy was powerful enough, but terrified of engineers. Not without reason – an engineer’s EMP grenades could turn a demoman into an unwilling suicide bomber. 

Ross looked at Katsu, waiting for the doctor to make the call. Katsu sighed. He went over to the boy and crouched beside him. “Feeling well?”

“Vhat? Yes. I am fine.” Gregor sat up. 

“Excellent. I hope you’re feeling well enough to help us attack that sentry nest.” 

Expressions crossed Gregor’s face in quick succession. A flicker of fear before settling into something that looked more liked disgust. Refusing Katsu would have been nothing short of insubordination, but still, the doctor would have preferred him happy. 

“Sure, vhatever, boss. But you know vhat? I am goink to leave my detpack here.”

That was a bit smart-alecky, but Katsu couldn’t argue with the logic. An EMP near the detpack could cause a blast powerful enough to kill all three of them at once. Should he remind Gregor to be respectful? Was it even worth it? No, they were just wasting time. He flipped open his medkit and grabbed a pair of syringes. Gregor and Ross were overhealed with a quick injection to the neck. “Let’s go.”

It took all of Katsu’s self restraint not to break into a sprint. No point in leaving the other two in the dust, not now. When they emerged from the fort, the air seemed hazy. Dust reflected sunlight; it made the whole word seem brighter, somehow. Katsu looked across the water; sure enough, the sentry next was gone. Not demolished, but packed up and hauled away. In fact, everything had been hauled away. Not a single gunshot echoed through the hazy air. 

Even before he looked over his shoulder, Katsu knew he would see the cloud of dust in the distance.  
***

“We’re taking two-minute showers, everyone! I want everybody in the lab in five! With your respirators. You!” Katsu pointed at Gregorio, “are not going to spend twenty minutes fine-trimming that mustache! And you!” he pointed at Bea, “are not going to mess around with makeup. Understood?”

The eight mercenaries scattered before him were all nodding. Katsu was the first one into the showers and the first one out. Hopping into his pants and he fiddled with his belt buckle, the scrambling down the stairs. He kept backups of all his medical supplies in the lab, but he couldn’t resist running to the infirmary to pick up a few extras. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, the light more hazy than ever. Katsu rifled through his cabinets. Painkiller and muscle relaxants. Sleeping pills. Lithium, to keep their spirits up. He had almost finished putting these into his medkit when the light vanished. Day had become night in a matter of seconds. Outside the windows, there was nothing but dark-red dust. 

That dust was seeping into the infirmary even now. He ought to get down to the lab, protect his lungs from the insidious particulate. But some part of him couldn’t resist those-blacked out windows. With one hand, he pulled up his mask, and he went over to the window. Touched the hot glass. He could see nothing but dust. Even the fencepost, not three meters from the window, had vanished into the clouds. It was as if the base had been submerged in an aquarium full of mud. The storm made no sound – shouldn’t a dramatic storm be accompanied by a roaring wind? Katsu didn’t know, really. He was no expert on the strange weather of the United States. Though this barely seemed like weather. Dusters would have belonged alongside fairy tales; they were nearly as incredible as lakes of milk and rivers of blood. 

Enough. Much longer, and his lungs would punish him.  
***

There was nothing on the radio. Well, there was nothing of importance on the radio. It was still cranking out music and shows, but nothing about the weather. Most of the stations were based out of Albuquerque, two hundred miles away. Teufort was small and distant enough to be forgotten. 

Fred sat back, letting the dial come to rest on a random station. “It’s Little Orphan Aaaaaannnnnnnniie,” crooned the radio. He turned it off, but the room did not become quiet. Gregor and Marcus were quibbling over something. The slap slap slap of Gregorio’s footsteps echoed off the walls. 

Why a duster? Why, oh, why a duster? Scientifically, he understood it. After decades of no-till farming, there was nothing holding the topsoil down. A drought and some wind were enough to pick everything up and dump it in the Pacific Ocean. What Fred didn’t understand was why some higher power would see fit to trap nine people in a single lab for god-knows-how long. Having to wear a respirator on a trip to the toiler. No privacy. No windows. No space to really spread out, even. Most everything was full of his machines and Gregor’s chemicals. Something was going to get knocked over an destroyed, he just knew it. 

What was worse? Watching one of his machines become damaged or having to pull a furious Gregor off of the unlucky offender? 

No. He shouldn’t be so ungrateful. They were better off than most everyone else. People in the countryside were surviving dusters in clapboard shanties, with nothing but damp towels over their faces. They had the filtration of the fume hoods, air so fresh and clean they didn’t even have to bother with respirators. Other people were sitting in the dark; they had generators and enough gasoline for weeks. And being two stories underground, it was even relatively cool. 

Someone was pounding on the door now. The Serb opened it and Kastu came flying in. He clutched his medkit to his chest and his hair was already reddish with dust. 

“Everyone here?” said Katsu. 

Fred took a headcount for the umpteenth time. Gregor at the bench. Bea and Marcus in the engineering half of the lab. Virgil on the ground, preparing for a nap. Ross digging through their supply packs. The Serb become so small and still it was easy to forget he was there. Gregorio was pacing up and down a narrow walkway, face contorted with frustration. How could he already be this restless, directly after a full day of running? Back and forth, back and forth. Eleven steps, a turn on his heels, and back again. It was like watching much pressure escaping through a too-small relief valve. Gregorio wouldn’t complain, but he’d pace until someone told him to stop. Then he’d do pushups and sit-ups until the whole lab stank, someone else complained, and he went back to pacing. Not pleasant, but Fred could hardly blame him. Stuffing a teenage boy into such a small space was nothing short of keeping an animal in a cage. 

“Safe and sound,” said Fred. The situation might not have been good, or even fine, but they were safe. 

“Any predictions?”

“Radio hasn’t even acknowledged the storm.” 

“Right.” Katsu nodded. He set the medkit on Gregor’s half of the bench, looked over his team, and sighed. Nothing left to do but wait. 

“Can we listen to zhe radio?” said Gregor. “Thinks are getting borink already.”

“No radio,” said Virgil. 

“If you can sleep on the battlefield you can sleep through the radio,” said Bea. 

“The radio’s obnoxious,” said Gregorio. 

“Who wants to play a game?” piped Ross. 

Everyone froze. That was Ross’s too-perky voice, the exact same one he used when trying to get the team out of bed at five in morning. (“Rise and shine everybody! An exciting new day awaits!”) Ross’s grin nearly split his face in half, and he shook an enormous, flattened box. Pieces rattled inside it. 

“A game? Like hide-and-seek?” said Marcus. 

“Board game,” Bea told him. “Like chess.” 

“Probably more like mancala,” said Gregor. “For children.” 

“Where’d you get that?” said Fred. The box didn’t look familiar. There was a picture of a bespectacled, mustachioed man on the lid. 

“Sears Catalog,” said Ross. “Bought it just for occasions like this. _Monopoly. _It’s new.”__

“What’s it about?” said Fred. 

“Real estate,” said Ross. “Buying and selling property.” 

“Buying and selling property?” said Fred. He couldn’t imagine anything more boring than sales. The manic perkiness of them, the false charm. Engineering was supposed to help him avoid this sort of thing. Katsu glanced at him, clearly thinking the same thing. In his peripheral vision, Fred saw the Serb rolling his eyes. 

Ross turned to Virgil. “Play?” Virgil scowled and closed his eyes. He rolled his back towards Ross without so much as an acknowledgement. 

“You know what,” said Gregorio. “I have no other good thing to do. I play.” His footsteps finally stopped. 

Ross’s face lit up. “Excellent. This’ll be delightful, Greg. I promise.” He pried open the box’s lid and unfolded a square of printed cardboard. “Now, where can I set this down?”

Every available surface was covered with chemicals, metal, or notes. 

“Surely we can shove some of this to the side…”

“No,” said Fred and Gregor almost simultaneously. 

“Y’all’s gotta stay away from those.”

“If you touch anyzhing…”

“Fine!” Ross’s grin had definitely faded by now. “We’ll be perfectly happing sitting on the floor.” He sat cross-legged and set the board before him. With it came two stacks of cards and a handful of little metal pieces. 

Gregorio picked up something shaped like a tiny shoe. Perfect for a scout. “These mark where we are?”

“Yep,” said Ross. He picked up a thick stack of pastel-colored bills and started counting them out. “I’ll try to explain the rules. Stop me if you don’t understand something. We each start out with fifteen hundred dollars. When you land on a property,” his fingers went over the board’s squares. “You can buy it from the bank and charge rent whenever someone else lands on it.” 

Something about this had caught Bea’s eye. “I know this game,” she said, standing up. “This is _The Landlord’s Game** _. It’s not new. They’re had those in Chicago for a decade.”__

“You’re familiar!” said Ross. “Do you enjoy it?” 

The intact half of Bea’s face smiled. “It’s amazing,” she said, standing up. “It’s vicious. I’ve lost friends over _The Landlord’s Game. _”__

“Wait, wait. You said were going to read to me,” said Marcus. 

“I’ll have time to read to you later,” said Bea. She tossed _Memoirs of an Infantry Officer _into Marcus’s lap and went over the board. “Come on.” She patted the ground beside her and turned to Ross. “We’re playing with insider deals on, right?”__

“What?” Ross fumbled with the little pamphlet that contained the rules. 

“Insider deals,” said Bea. “We can buy and sell properties between each other. Form partnerships. Charge interest. Oh, come on!” she whined, seeing the look on Ross’s face. “It’s boring otherwise.”

Ross rubbed at his temples. “Well, nobody wants boring.”

Gregorio narrowed his eyes. “Boring, my ass.” He leaned towards Bea. “You. Already you think of some horrible thing to do to us, no?” 

Bea tried to make an innocent face. The burn scars and empty eye socket somehow managed to ruin the effect. “I wouldn’t.”

Gregor let out a laugh that somehow turned into a cough. Virgil’s laugh was long and utterly undisguised. For a moment everyone was still, staring at each other. 

“Come on, Marcus.” Bea patted the ground again. “Join us. It’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.” There was no way Marcus was going to be able to make it through _Memoirs of an Infantry Officer _without Bea’s help.__

“This is going to end terribly, isn’t it?” Fred muttered into Katsu’s ear. 

“Guarantee it.”

“Should we…” 

“Yes.” 

“We’re playing, too!” cried Katsu, brandishing an index finger.  
“Can you even play with six people?” said Gregorio. 

Ross counted out the little metal tokens. There were eight of them. “Room for two more,” he called to Gregor and the Serb. 

“Vhatever.” Gregor came. The Serb slinked after them. Ross might have appealed to Virgil, offering to let him be the banker, but it was unlikely they’d be able to persuade the Sniper. 

Eight people around the board made it a bit of a crunch, but they managed. They selected token, shuffled to get a good view. Ross felt a smile building up inside him. Nearly the whole team of was here! Perfect bonding!

“Let’s start with a practice round,” he said. “I’ll explain as we go. Bea, I need you to correct me if I make an error.” He handed the a pair of dice to Gregorio. “Youngest first.”

**Author's Note:**

> * Yes, we just saw a rocket-jumping Pyro. TFC gameplay is weird.
> 
> ** Various versions of _Monopoly _-like games have existed since the early 1900s. One of them was called _The Landlord’s Game _and some of its properties were based on real places in Chicago. Parker Brother published the current version of _Monopoly _in 1936______


End file.
